Back in August, my daughter started Kindergarten. Not half day two or three times a week, but all day 8:15 AM to 3:00 PM Monday through Friday Kindergarten. I was torn between being happy that she was getting to be such a big girl, and had dreams of all the time I would have for writing during the day while she was at school, but then there were other days where I was sad. Sad to realize that she was no longer my baby, she was a big girl who would soon make lots of new friends, and have lots of new adventures without me.
My husband and I took her to school the first day, and I was so proud of myself for not crying in front of her. I managed to keep it together until we were walking back down the stairs to leave. My vision was suddenly blurry, and I had to stop on the stairs to collect myself so I wouldn’t go top over teakettle down the rest. I got myself under control, and once home, had the most productive morning of my life. Ever.
It was strange to be in the house alone, knowing that R was at work, as always, but still listening for the rustling movement of my angry midget, a peel of laughter at the cat’s antics, the sound of her voice as she tried to train the dog, but all that answered my ears was silence. A few times, I started to go look for her, to see what she was getting into, because she had to be getting into something, she had been quiet for too long, only to realize that she wasn’t home, she was in some else’s care for the day.
Here I had spent the majority of the summer looking forward to the first day of school so I could get really serious about my writing, and when the first day arrived, I did everything but write. I did every household chore I could think of to surround myself with M’s things. I did laundry and put her clothes away. I cleaned her room. I sorted out her too small clothes. And I missed her more than I ever thought I possibly could. That is, until I was ready to leave for an appointment with the insurance agent.
There was no one else to coordinate with, so I was ready to go in less than 5 minutes. In the car, I turned to see if she was buckled in her car seat yet, and had a moment of panic when she wasn’t there, but all of that was cake compared to the punch to the solar plexus that I received when I started the car and her favorite song was on the radio. I lost it. Right there in my driveway, I just fell apart. I missed her so much, and I felt so silly because she was just at school. I would be picking her up in just a few hours, but in that moment, it felt like the world was finding every opportunity to point out that she had moved on to the next stage in her life, and left me behind with her board books and sippy cups.
I eventually got used to her being away all day, and fell into a rhythm. Then Christmas break came knocking…
I was dreading it. Twenty-one days of cold and snow, and the first seven were before Christmas so there wouldn’t even be any new toys to keep her busy.
Somehow I managed, but the whole time I was counting the days until school started back up and I was able to get back to my routine. Now, here I am sitting in bed, un willing to get up and go to the gym, because I miss her, and wish I had just one more day of Christmas vacation with her because there is still so much I want to do with her. I was up when she left this morning with her dad (I was able to save her from a dad induced hair emergency) and actually felt a tear roll down my cheek when I closed the door behind them.
This leads me to ask the question: Are we as mothers, fathers, people in general, society as a whole, ever really happy? Do we even know how to be happy? Or are we doomed to always want that which we cannot have, or which we have just given up? Is there a way to just be happy with what we have, who we are, and where we are in life, or is it just not in the human DNA to just accept and survive without longing for something else, something different, something past, or something just out of reach?
Mom’s are supposed to have all the answers, but this is one thing I don’t think I’ll ever have the answer to no matter how long I live, or how many years I am a mother.
My husband and I took her to school the first day, and I was so proud of myself for not crying in front of her. I managed to keep it together until we were walking back down the stairs to leave. My vision was suddenly blurry, and I had to stop on the stairs to collect myself so I wouldn’t go top over teakettle down the rest. I got myself under control, and once home, had the most productive morning of my life. Ever.
It was strange to be in the house alone, knowing that R was at work, as always, but still listening for the rustling movement of my angry midget, a peel of laughter at the cat’s antics, the sound of her voice as she tried to train the dog, but all that answered my ears was silence. A few times, I started to go look for her, to see what she was getting into, because she had to be getting into something, she had been quiet for too long, only to realize that she wasn’t home, she was in some else’s care for the day.
Here I had spent the majority of the summer looking forward to the first day of school so I could get really serious about my writing, and when the first day arrived, I did everything but write. I did every household chore I could think of to surround myself with M’s things. I did laundry and put her clothes away. I cleaned her room. I sorted out her too small clothes. And I missed her more than I ever thought I possibly could. That is, until I was ready to leave for an appointment with the insurance agent.
There was no one else to coordinate with, so I was ready to go in less than 5 minutes. In the car, I turned to see if she was buckled in her car seat yet, and had a moment of panic when she wasn’t there, but all of that was cake compared to the punch to the solar plexus that I received when I started the car and her favorite song was on the radio. I lost it. Right there in my driveway, I just fell apart. I missed her so much, and I felt so silly because she was just at school. I would be picking her up in just a few hours, but in that moment, it felt like the world was finding every opportunity to point out that she had moved on to the next stage in her life, and left me behind with her board books and sippy cups.
I eventually got used to her being away all day, and fell into a rhythm. Then Christmas break came knocking…
I was dreading it. Twenty-one days of cold and snow, and the first seven were before Christmas so there wouldn’t even be any new toys to keep her busy.
Somehow I managed, but the whole time I was counting the days until school started back up and I was able to get back to my routine. Now, here I am sitting in bed, un willing to get up and go to the gym, because I miss her, and wish I had just one more day of Christmas vacation with her because there is still so much I want to do with her. I was up when she left this morning with her dad (I was able to save her from a dad induced hair emergency) and actually felt a tear roll down my cheek when I closed the door behind them.
This leads me to ask the question: Are we as mothers, fathers, people in general, society as a whole, ever really happy? Do we even know how to be happy? Or are we doomed to always want that which we cannot have, or which we have just given up? Is there a way to just be happy with what we have, who we are, and where we are in life, or is it just not in the human DNA to just accept and survive without longing for something else, something different, something past, or something just out of reach?
Mom’s are supposed to have all the answers, but this is one thing I don’t think I’ll ever have the answer to no matter how long I live, or how many years I am a mother.
